The Julie Ruin

Men make art, Men make music. For women to make art and music is in itself (sadly still true) a political statement. For women to make killer rock and roll with a Smash The State, Smash The Patriarchy power that The Julie Ruin brings to the stage is a revelation, a revaluation, and a revolution.

On the third day of visiting the 2014 MONA FOMA I was lamenting to myself the lack of political engagement of the artists. Sure there were many cool things to see, and hear, and taste, and there were many cool folk to mingle with and to chat. But in terms of anything that faced the urgencies of our time, there was very little.

And I wandered about the auditoriums and court yards and thought of Nietzsche:

This future speaks even now in a hundred signs, this destiny announces itself everywhere; for this music of the future all ears are cocked even now. For some time now, our whole European culture has been moving as toward a catastrophe, with a tortured tension that is growing from decade to decade: restlessly, violently, headlong, like a river that wants to reach the end, that no longer reflects, that is afraid to reflect.

Where was this music? Where was this reflection?

Art is enough singer Kathleen Hanna told the crowd, mix art with activism, with community building she further suggested to the audience. She discussed the need for unity, the need to get over that that false leftie sort of idea that we should be pure, and we should constantly cut down those who; for example, still drink milk in their fair trade tea, as opposed to the purity of soy milk. This is all crap and what is needed at this time is unity.

The band spoke warmly and honestly to the audience, and they were able to engage the usually passive Hobart crowd. Anyone that missed this show, missed a lesson in music and a lesson in politics and most vitally the missed a lesson in how music and politics can be fused as we dance round the grave about Kapital.

On a side note I thought it was of interest that the keyboard player was a bloke, was this a happy coincidence or a statement on the fact that many times there are bands in which the keyboard player is the only woman.

During the final song of the set the crowd was able to witness all the actual nature of class and gender relations in our “ freedom.” Two young women, rock and rollers and full of passion and energy, and desirous of change hurdled the barrier, into that special space between audience and performer, that space reserved for the elite few photographers and their bully boy escorts. Of course the big burly he-men bouncers pounced and man handled the women back into the seething mass, where they obviously belong.

One could see exactly what The Julie Ruin were saying. Any divergence, any deviation of the rules can not be allowed, can not be tolerated. There can be no dancing, save in the nominated places. Much like the horrid free speech areas which are popping up all over the Western World, which do no more than silence dissent.

My warehouse eyes

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My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums.

The pied oystercatchers hunt haunt the shore.

In the morning I drive my daughter to school.
In the car, on the CD player, on repeat
Two times exact we hear Sad Eyed Lady.

We drive along poorly maintained regional roads
We drive along the thin single dual carriageway.
Bedad, it's for him that will always employ.
Curving and up and down avoiding the hills
Green with spring, Donegal green, bogus leprechaun
Green, emerald green, new life growing green,
Algal pond scum green, too many whiskeys green,
Wizard of Oz city green. And the bluest sky.

Glancing up side streets to Peloponnesian bays
Grasping after and eroding the island.
The constant slapping roar of the ocean
The pebbles rushing up and down the sand,
Loud calls of circling gulls and terns islands
Grow out from the flat restless blue green ocean.
Thalatta! Thalassa! The sea, the sea!
Rolling out to the great southern ice kingdom.
Like plump dactyl jangling Mulligan I seek
To Hellenize the island as I drive dream thin
Gray dark hard highway a scar on the landscape
Thinning winding its way past the houses and small
Communities. Past vineyards blooming green new growth
Past orchards wearing fairy flossed tiny flowers.
In the distance, across the water looms
The great Cezzane of a mountain, Wellington,
Table Top, Kunanyi, false reconstructed name,
Cloud gathering mountain dominates the south east.
Names are power, show imperial ownership.

The paddocks dotted with the bright white new lambs
Frolicking and gamboling besides dirty
Brown gray hairy tired constant chewing,
Weather beaten out in all weathers baaramewe;
Or the new born cows, calves lolling and mooing,
Until lying down the green grass as if drunk
From the warm fresh growth giving mothers milk.
High necked horses standing noble and silent.
The pecking clucking chooks drunken walk for food.

The little communities, the tumble down
Fences and old farm buildings, traffic slowing
Tractors putting and snorting diesel fumes.

And lurid yellow signs of council elections.
Vote for me and I will set you free. Yellow
Signs of those who lack imagination,
A council that can do no more than sell out
Local business and endeavour to large scale
Multi national commerce and restless greed.
No idea of the future now called the knowledge
Economy, no nothing for the young slowly
Moving away and leaving the district for
The old and fearful those with no ability
To see past the next quarter. Mean spirited,
Denying innocent bright eyed girl guides
A hall to call their own, but happy to build
A new city hall millions spent and no idea
Of what the future will be, no connections
To the world being born. Hanging on to the old.
Holding tight and so we all suffer as result.
Only a tip a dump a cell for excreta
Pouring out the arse end of industry
And forced upon consumption, planned obsolescence.

Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide
To show you where the dead angels are that they used to hide.

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Life Within

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Three tonne of wood delivered
Warm tightly stacked nest for mice
Bought early at the best price.

And in the wind whipping afternoon
Faded flannel well scuffed shoes
Dirty hair muddyshit stained jeans
I lean forward, as if throwing the heavy
Log splitting metal point. Exploding
Along the path of grain. One into two.

And alien worlds unknown are revealed
To me. Entire worlds in the cooling
Afternoon. Paths of nests and trails
To food bored out burrowed
Secreted in secret silent lives
Passed without sunlight. Insects
Scatter as the axe head splits the wood.

Crackling fireplace throwing light and warmth
Children and dogs huddling the screaming
Popping sound of strange life ceasing.

Open the Curtains

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Sure the gods can destroy anyone they wish at any time, but without devotees that gods become no more than a tale with which to scare naughty children at bedtime.

Open the curtains
Upon waking.

The children gently snoring.

The acute angle
Of the sun
Etches deep shadows
The covered with trees
Far off mountains.
Crisp cool moontime
Retreating.

Driving my love into
The city of work
(Her hell of alienation)
The overnight killed
Animals curl the warming
Blacktop - seemingly asleep.

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Around 300,000 animals are killed on Tasmania’s roads every year. The death toll includes 3,000 Tasmanian Devils a year. Roadkill is a major threat to the survival of the species now that it is depleted by facial tumour disease.
Save Our Animals

Many Pathed Gaia

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From atop the shallow rise
The road black and lean rolls
Down and out vanishing point

Here, on my right, knee high grass
Browns the paddock many pathed.
Wanderings of sheep. Thin clouds
Chittering rise hidden the grass
Flutter and sing and settle.

Introduced. And I am left
Dreaming vague discontent,
This landscape of signposts
And fences and bare hills.

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Why write a poem at all? And why this piece of crap, adding to the mountain of crap that is the modern poetry landscape. Boredom mostly, vanity - the foolish idea that I have something worth hearing, and of course compulsive thinking too much.

Euruaguia: wide street, or in this case many pathed. From the hymn to Demeter, describing the rape of Persephone by many named Aidas; the unseen, the all receiver, the host of many.

And the girl was amazed and reached out with both hands to take the lovely toy; but the wide-pathed earth yawned there in the plain of Nysa, and the lord, Host of Many, with his immortal horses sprang out upon her...

One sunny afternoon driving home, I saw the paths made by the sheep across the paddock, and I thought of Kore being taken by Hades. And then looking out the window the starlings rose, hidden by the high grass, and the rest just sort of wrote itself.

Enjoy it or not, use it or not, but if you do please link back to original.

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Potnia Theron

photo from http://www.utexas.edu/courses/larrymyth/images/2E-Artemis-Actaeon.jpg

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Hymn 9 to Artemis


Sing Muse, of Artemis,
Sister of the far worker.
Virgin spitter of arrows,
Fed at the same table as Apollo.

She refreshes her horses
The waters of reedy thick Meletos.

Swiftly through Smyrna
She drives her golden chariot
To Klaros rich in vines while
Apollo of the silver bow awaits
The arrow-pourer.

Hail Goddess! At the same time
Embroider lyrics. Of you I sing.
And now I shall pass over
Into another mournful song.

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this one from http://albertis-window.blogspot.com/2011/02/diana-of-ephesus-keeping-abreast-with.html


some words on Artemis

Artemis has many different guises, she seemed to start as a fertility goddess, as in Artemis of Ephusus and later takes the role of the virgin mistress of wild animals. She is quite cruel in her protection of her sacred animals, and in the protection of her virginity.

When I read of Artemis and Apollo and the serenity with which they can torture and kill us mortals I am reminded of Rilke's Angels from the first of his Duino Elegies. (which was written in Trieste while Joyce was writing Ulysses.)

Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the Angelic
Orders? And even if one were to suddenly
take me to its heart, I would vanish into its
stronger existence. For beauty is nothing but
the beginning of terror, that we are still able to bear,
and we revere it so, because it calmly disdains
to destroy us. Every Angel is terror.

Ekatos - the far shooter, a name for Apollo, the younger twin brother to Artemis.

Iocheairan - This word is commonly translated as arrow pourer. Ios is the word for arrow as well as the word for venom. I combined the arrow and the venom of the snake and made the image of the mistress of the wild beasts (potnia theron) spitting arrows, as a snake will spit venom.

Bathuschoinoio - combining Bathos; deep, used in many metaphorical ways as well, including the connotation that is still current, profound, and schoinos which means reeds. Coincidently schoinos can be used to mean arrow or javelin.

Meletos a river, which may have been near to city of Smyrna.

Kleros - a site sacred to Apollo, where there was once an oracle.

Humnos - a hymn, but also a word with wider intimations, a simple strain or melody but also a hymn, an ode to the gods, but also a mournful song. As all art has an element of sorrow I used to translation of mournful song.

Again I am no scholar in the classics, but a vain and puny amateur who gains enjoyment trying to make sense of the word about us.

Drifters Cafe & Caritas Poetry Event

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Sharp windy, slow setting night walking.

Saturday last, I went out into the city, to the Drifters Internet
Cafe. Nestled off the side street down stairs the market dock
Salamanca shade of Wellington side of town. A relaxed venue for
listening to a poet. Poetry for Pakistan, a fund raiser for the
Caritas Pakistan Flood Appeal. A series of readings had been organised
for the appeal, but this was the only one I could attend. I was lucky
to be able to make it to this reading. More formless than planned out
this document is my attempt to understand what I learnt about the
event.

Ghosts of the Galapagos; the poetry of flight. A series of new lyrics
by Paul Healy. Fog lifting revealing panta, revealing all things, the
picton bridge, the blue heron. I arrived late, mid poem, and began to
quiet sit and poured myself a glass of water. And set myself to
listen. And ordered a cup of chai, frothy in the modern style with a
shake of cinnamon on top. High vaulted and perfumed poetry.

A simple quiet venue, with a small attentive crowd. I was at once
swept up with the flow of the poets words, his skill at 'making', his
simple and confident reading style. As advertised the poetry was a
series of lyrics around the theme of flight, about bird flight. This
ordinary, everyday idea separated itself and allowed multicoloured
ideas to flourish.

I was, with the poem about the lame gull who was able to gain the
choicest food, struck with the scientific cold harded factual manner,
in that compassion may not be the best reaction in many a natural
relationship. The human desire to place our values, and with good
intentions to intervene is not always the best course of action.

Songs of loss and desolation, of joy and astonishment. A dialogue of
nature and a lesson in what is being done in our state. A tale of
chemical warfare in the forests and Tasmanian devil facial tumours in a
poem called simply '1080'.

Everywhere images of the wonder and of the erotic generative spirit of
nature. Will to Power, nature struggling to create and manifest across
many forms. From the rushing diving collared sparrow hawk making a
kill, to the blue heron still on blue rock shading the water to tempt
the little fish, to the unlikely pigeon in some plot of dead land
neither bush nor city highlighted in a ray of setting sunlight, to
clinking currawongs in the Styx Valley sounding like far off church
bells, the images of flight blended with a scientific understanding of
the environment, and created a strong series of lyrics.

The poet confessed his surprise at some poems which seemed to come all
at once, as if formed from the ether. This is of course the result of
study, and practising technique. Leave the reader hanging, the poet
offered as advice, using his own work for examples. Add a strong grasp
of the English tradition, and a love of the classic forms of
poetry. The comparison thoughts that sprang to my mind while words
described the spine tailed swift flying 5000 feet in the sky and
'rides the summer thunder wall', of course was Hopkins, followed by
the ol' Will-of-Wisp Yeats. Scrambled into the forgotten linkages of
the Heraclitian Gyre.

A poem about the Pied Butcher Bird described the harmony of white and
black and gray camouflage colouring, there is a unity in
diversity. Pied Beauty and a similar eye for natural detail as
Hopkins, and while I can not agree with the poet's program of reviving
the classical forms of English poetry, I will agree that the study of
poetry is worthwhile as an end in itself. A rigorous understanding
and appreciation of the various forms of poetry, allow vast fields of
poetic imagination and inspiration to spring to life. Ripe fruit for
the poet to feast upon. Even for the experimental poets it must be
accepted that 'no verse is free', and for all poets that creation is
social creation.

So while there was a strong spiritual element that I could not agree
with, I am only too happy to quote Lenin, “Intelligent idealism is
nearer to intelligent materialism than is stupid materialism." and
leave the subject closed.

Listening to the ABC local radio in the morning, I was at once struck
with the passion and pleased to hear the poet speak of the importance
of supporting young poets, and the need to create a space for young
poets. This is to me very important and if I can add a slogan to the
argument, it would be 'More mentors, Fewer English Teachers.' While I
readily accept that poetry comes in many shapes and sizes, and is
indeed a raw creative purgation involving language, practised by a
wide and diverse section of society, I do find it amusing to hear
academics discuss other academics as having a 'demotic voice.' Allow
me to step off my soap hobby horse box, and commend Paul Healy as a
poet, and even more importantly as a mentor.

Roses

It is sometimes hard to write with a family and job and et cetera - so this took about a week to write and in the end i just the said the hell with it and called it quits. Poss is TS Eliot, as in 'old possums book of idiotic cats'.

This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
The Hollow Men





yet say this to the Possum: a bang, not a whimper,
...
To build the city of Dioce whose terraces are the colour of stars.
Canto 74

The photo is from the cascades female factory

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The roses are slow to rouse themselves
Tight buds build slowly to blossom
As the afternoon light creeps off
To bed later and later each day.

This is poss, how it ends, not a bang
Nor a whimper. The cracking sound
Of ice, the crackling rain forest
Fire, a sudden belch of methane.

The echoing murmur of the wealthy
Perverting discourse of lies and doubt.
This is how it ends, fearful
Unable faceless desires

Not a bang not a whimper not swaying
From the lamp posts. Spasmodic crisis
Looping collapse makes bird song still,
Ends the soft mouse rustling grass.